


Busk-point

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: 17th Century, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Disguise, Drama & Romance, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fairy Tale Retellings, Genderfluid Character, Happy Ending, Implied Physical Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Secret Identity, somewhere in the center of transness crossdressing and genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: Flash has been isolated for six years, following an accident which left him without his legs. Under the strict hand of his father, he tends to the house, unable to leave for even the most minor of tasks.One night, a ball rolls around in the prince's honor.For the first time in six years, Flash finds freedom.(A Cinderella-inspired story)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Flash Thompson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes elements from a couple of different versions of Cinderella, though remixed and chopped down slightly in places... A generally mid-17th century setting, though the dialogue isn't period at ALL and I wouldn't consider it particularly historically rigorous... (I definitely have some 18th and 16th century things scattered in my inspirations)  
> It's a fairy tale after all!  
> A little bit magical, a lot practical. Some gender-playfulness on Flash's part.
> 
> And to clarify something right out the gate: A busk point is the lace which fastens a busk in place, and a busk is a straightish piece of wood (or whalebone, metal, ivory, etc.) which was used to provide structure in the front of a pair of bodies and later in corsets up until a new style of split busk was introduced in... I wanna say the 1800s.
> 
> If you'd like to see some of my (image) references to get a general idea of the aesthetics you can go to this google folder:  
> [LINK](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/176HXkhqQC1NeVXQygMnk_QihjKgomPcE?usp=sharing)

_There once was a boy with sea-glass eyes and strawberry curls and a dimpled smile. He had a mother and a sister, and a father who was captain of the royal guard. The father, despite being so well-appointed and well-respected, was a drunk and a lout, and the boy often stepped in to protect his mother and sister from his violent tendencies, though sometimes he weathered abuse simply to be put in his place._

_One day, there was an accident, and the boy nearly died, and nearly died again undergoing surgery. But while he lost his legs, he hung onto his life—_

_But his father lied and told everyone he had, in fact, died._

_His mother and sister fled back to the boy's aunt, after whom he was named, leaving him alone with his father, the drunken lout, with no one to protect him now that he could no longer protect himself._

_Now, he lived as a prisoner in his own home, relegated to household duties and menial chores._

✧✧✧

"Eugene!"

Flash looked up from his clumsy floral embroidery, at the sound of his father thundering up the stairs. He hurried to stash the white doublet under the linens in the trunk by his bed before his father unlocked the door—after all, mending was one thing but embroidery was the domain of a woman, not the son of a retired guardsman. Leaning on the desk, he carefully stuck his needle where it belonged and smoothed down the front of his shirt, centering his balance on the pegs that he used for legs.

The lock clicked, and the door flew open.

"Where's my new riding cloak, boy?" Harrison towered in the doorway, slightly mussed as if in a hurry but apparently sober.

Flash kept his hands in view and his head down as he answered, "Drying beside the fireplace in the hall, sir."

With only an exasperated huff in return, his father stalked off, leaving the door open and the lock empty. Flash made his way over to peer out, holding onto the doorframe as he leaned into the hallway. There was the open door to the study, and there were the stairs, and his father nowhere in sight.

Flash left his room and took to the stairs, careful and slow on the narrow steps. Stairs were the hardest, for him, requiring an awkward gait.

His father reappeared at the bottom and nearly knocked him over hurrying back up to his study. Flash held to the railing and frowned. He kept his place, as his father again rushed past him back downstairs. It irritated him—it did, but what was he supposed to do? If he got mad, his dad would probably just push him down the stairs or take his legs or something.

"Where are you going?"

Harrison actually stopped for a moment, by the door to the garden, with the key in the lock. He considered his son from the bottom of the stairs, and finally answered, "I'll be gone for a month or so, to visit an old friend in the country." He even smiled, suddenly, though not entirely warm. "Maybe I'll bring you something back, hm?"

"Oh—" Flash didn't dare get his hopes up but that potential hint of fatherliness still made his chest warm. "Like what?"

Harrison laughed as he pocketed the key. "A broom."

"Oh." Flash's hope fizzled out, as his father's laughter moved into the front of the house to gather the rest of his things.

His father gave one last holler—"I'll bring you a spool of thread!" and the door slammed shut, with a loud click as the lock turned.

The house was silent.

Flash made his way down the rest of the staircase to go through their stores of food and ration out a meal plan for the next four weeks.

✧✧✧

Despite being locked into the house, only able to access the garden and the outhouse, Flash found himself strangely giddy the first day. Maybe nerves, some anxiety that his father would suddenly reappear. Maybe just excited to have the whole house to himself, to be able to do and dress as he pleased even if he'd have to eat slim—business as usual.

With the windows thrown open to the spring air and the smell of flowers, he slowly began to relax.

Flash took his embroidery out from its hiding-place, and set it in full view beside the mending work, for later, though his thread supply was running low. He spread his poetry books across the foot of his bed, with some paper and a pencil, too. He didn't touch the broom or do any housekeeping other than what was fully necessary.

He sat at the vanity by the window overlooking the garden, down to his breeches with a bowl of water and hard soap before him, and washed himself with a cleaning cloth. He took his time, focused on his face and his hands, and most importantly, his hair. Leaning over the bowl to catch any drips, he worked the soap through his wet hair until it was clean and free of tangles.

Flash wrung his hair out and looked at himself in the mirror.

He smiled.

As his hair dried, tied back from his face to curl into ringlets, he rummaged for his most hidden belongings, under the false bottom of his linen chest.

A woman's smock, and a simple off-white pair of bodies and stomacher with busk, all handmade himself through years of trial and error. They smelled a little musty, but that was alright. He shook the smock out and carefully pulled it on, letting it fall about him as he sat on his bed. He took his breeches off, and his peg legs followed, set leaning against the wall within easy reach.

Now he looked at his stays—his bodies—and ran his hand over them. Before doing anything else he took his hand-carved busk and turned it over just to admire his own craftsmanship. It was no token of love, but it still had passion inscribed into it, where he'd spent some lonely nights carefully etching poetry both of his own creation and that which he simply liked into the wood. Maybe it was a token after all, written to himself. Couplets, but also flowers and insects, initials and birds. There was a half-finished butterfly on one side that he still needed to tighten up.

For now, though, he simply slipped the hardwood busk into its pocket on the inner lining of the stomacher, and tied it into place with its ribbon point.

The stays themselves weren't too long, comfortable enough to sit in as he carefully began to lace them just enough to slip the stomacher underneath. With that lined up it took him only a moment to lace the bodies firmly into place, well-practiced in secret. He tied and tucked the ends, and adjusted his smock, and took a deep breath. Just sitting there a moment with his hands resting on the smooth conical shape it made of his torso.

Flash lay down on top of his sheets, in just these simple underthings, and let out a soft, contented sigh.

✧✧✧

It took a week for Flash to work up the courage to wear his clothes into the garden, fear of retribution slowly fading.

The garden was mostly flowers, this early in the spring, though there was a beautifully blooming damson tree back a bit from the house and shading a small area for sitting, and some pumpkin plants that obviously wouldn't fruit for a full season. Various berries just beginning to prepare for summer.

He still had some preserves of winter berries, and a few bottles of damson wine from last spring… Maybe he could make a picnic of it with today's ration of salt pork.

He put on his smock and stays and, rummaging through his sewing projects—many modified and taken out from clothes his mother had left behind when she fled with Jesse—found some pieces he liked. He layered some petticoats and pockets, and a kerchief too, and covered it all with a simple yellow skirt and plain red-orange waistcoat. Among the things left behind he found a cross-cloth and coif to put his hair up into, and a striped apron to tie around his waist.

Flash took a moment to admire the outfit.

The person in the mirror looked like some new sister, and a hint of pink colored Flash's already ruddy cheeks.

It wasn't the nicest or most elegant dress—it was a working woman's outfit—but Flash felt more like a working woman than anything, most days, and the Thompsons' faded era of respect and standing had never been much above working class anyway. Harrison had always drunk away most of the money. The supposed death of his son and the leaving of his wife and daughter only cemented that he was a washed-up man riding on the savings of the palace.

Flash prepared herself a little bundle of food, of salted meat fried on the stove, and raisins, and a little bit of beer to cut the edges from her isolation. Only a little bit, though.

It was a nice day, when she entered the backyard. A little bit sunny, a little bit breezy, smelling of fresh rain. A few droplets fell against Flash's face as she walked with the support of her crutch, wobbling slightly—the skirts were a little unfamiliar, and she was mostly used to lounging in her petticoats all alone in her bedroom. But once she got the hang of it she hardly needed her crutch, and she let it lean up against the side of the plum tree as she sat down to her picnic.

Flash couldn't help but smile.

✧✧✧

Over the next several weeks, Flash did her usual gardening and housework; cleaning the fireplaces, making food, sweeping and mending and so on.

But when the chores were done Flash was able to wind down. Reading and writing poetry, practicing embroidery, and simply relaxing either in the bedroom or in the garden under the boughs and blossoms of the damson plum tree.

In fact, Flash went out into the garden every day, unless it was raining. Most every time in simple women's dress or a mix-and-match of whatever appealed that day, feeling freer than any time in the past half-dozen years despite being unable to actually leave the house. There was just something so pleasant about a flower petal falling onto the leaves of a book, or into her hair.

And the way the garden was terraced, not a soul could see in or out, except for the sky and the birds.

In this privacy, a few weeks in, Flash sat in breeches and bodies, legs removed and set aside, enjoying the mottled sunlight on his bare face and half-exposed breast, and the delicate play of the cool shadows and fresh breeze. He sat with a bottle of last year's plum wine in-hand, and he drank—maybe hypocritical, knowing the way his father drank to excess and the way that enhanced his already harsh personality and quick temper. But Flash let himself indulge, until melancholy overcame him in the late afternoon.

Soon his father would return and he would lose this freedom.

Freedom to relax. Freedom to wear what felt good. To embroider and to write reams of poetry and to leave the house (even if it were only for the garden). To leave his own _bedroom_ without permission.

Freedom to be happy.

Flash lay sighing under the tree, bottle empty, until the sun began to set.

✧✧✧

Eventually, it had to end, and the day came for Harrison's return.

Flash felt like he'd spent the final week double- and triple- and quadruple-checking everything, just in case his father came back that day or the next. Anxiety fueled his housework and he hardly ate—not that they had much food left, but he'd set aside just enough to be able to make dinner at a moment's notice, unsure of the exact day his father would be back but feeling it rolling up on him like a wave from the ocean.

But sure enough…

"Eugene!"

Flash's breath caught as he hurried from the garden—where he was doing his washing—to the kitchen. He held onto the doorframe, heavy steps sinking his stomach one by one, until his father appeared in the kitchen doorway. He eyed Flash's wet hands and rolled-up sleeves, and the water-flecked apron covering his breeches.

"Doing laundry?"

Flash ducked his head. "Yes, sir."

There was a certain unsteadiness to his father's voice, as he spoke. "Need you to mend somethin' when you're done."

Flash's throat tightened. He'd used all of his mending supplies while his father had been away, unable to buy any more for himself.

"I… I can't." Flash hurried to add, "My thread. I'm out."

Harrison was silent a moment.

"You want thread?"

Flash bit his tongue, and nodded. No need to make a fuss. It wouldn’t help him, it would only hurt.

No blows came, though. No shouting. He father spun on his heel and stomped out of the house, leaving Flash shaken in the doorway. He took a deep breath… Turned to the garden, and made his way to the wooden basin he had been doing laundry in—

With a great heave and a shout Flash upended all the laundry into the flowerbeds, soapy water sloshing out everywhere.

He dropped down into the mud, water seeping through the seat of his pants, and pressed his face into his hands.

✧✧✧

The beating was an inevitability, when Flash's father returned hours later drunker than before and with a ludicrous amount of thread of all types and colors.

Flash was an adult, he should have been able to defend himself now, but the years of isolation and the power his father held over him ground any resistance down before he could form it, and afterward, he sat at his desk with his head pillowed in his arms on top of the white doublet he'd been working on for so long. So close to completion.

His father had gone to bed, locking Flash into his room until the morning.

The only comfort he had was that he hadn't shed a tear.

Sore, Flash reached out to toy with a spool of thread. Two dozen separate spools, of varying fineness. Some even silk, for embroidery. As if Harrison even knew the difference. Burgundy red, burnt orange, vibrant yellow, grass green, slate blue, a dull violet-gray, a brown the color of soil, ivory cream, un-dyed white, a simple stone gray, a sweet petal pink, a soft baby blue… And a variety of off-whites and browns.

Unbidden, heat welled up in Flash's eyes. Late-coming, as the worst of the pain and shame faded and settled to a deeper ache under his skin.

He was just about to pull his hand away to swipe at them when, silent and weightless, a plain brown spider dropped down on a string of invisible silk and lit on his finger. He didn't dare move, holding his breath. It sat there a moment, almost like it was looking at him.

A tear managed to escape the corner of his eye, and rolled down his nose. He sniffed, and sat up, to bring the spider close, so he could look at it. It seemed unbothered by the world, only moving a little as his hand turned—it tip-toed onto his palm.

"Hello there…" Flash kept his voice low, barely a whisper. "Where did you come from?"

A soft hoot from outside reminded him that his window was open just a hair. The breeze picked up, rustling his nightshirt, and he carefully slid out of his seat so he could stand. He supported himself on the desk and then on his vanity as he wobbled slightly, stiff from his beating, and made it to the window.

"Here you go." Flash held his hand to the open pane.

A moment passed, and just as he thought he might need to shake it loose or something, the spider crawled off of his hand. He watched it go, scuttling off out of sight, out the window. Outside, motes of pollen and dust glimmered in the moonlight.

Flash took a deep breath, and closed the window.

He returned to his desk, and by candlelight he threaded his embroidery needle.

✧✧✧

"There's a ball tonight, to find the prince a wife."

Flash looked up from where he sat tending the fireplace after the night's low burn. His father stared down at him with bloodshot eyes, and slowly grinned. Nothing good in that, but Flash set his jaw and didn’t look away.

"Tell you what." Harrison reached for the sack of oats on the counter, which Flash had set out to start making a porridge with—he hadn't expected his father to be up this early and had hoped to have it done before he woke up.

Harrison inspected the bag in his hand…

And calm as anything, he poured the oats into the fireplace, plus a good measure over Flash's head.

Flash was so shocked he couldn't even move, let alone think of anything to say.

"You pick these out nice and clean and make a good porridge out of it, and I'll let you go to the ball tonight." He dropped the empty sack to the floor.

The way Flash's heart skipped.

He hadn't left the house, aside from the garden, since he was sixteen.

But this mess…

"You…" Flash got his mouth working, as a few oats fell from his head and shoulders. "How can I…?"

His father leaned down, voice low. "I'm sure you'll find a way." He mussed up Flash's hair, shaking the rest of the oats free, and turned to leave. "I'm going out."

Once more left alone, the front door locked tight.

Sitting in a pile of oats with even more in the ashes.

Flash clenched his hands into the fabric of his breeches, and steadied his breathing, as heat crept up the back of his neck. He let out a long, controlled sigh and reached for the emptied bag where his father had dropped it on the floor.

This wouldn't be so bad.

It was fine.

Work smart.

He could sweep them all into the bag, and put them through a sieve. The ash was fine enough, if he did that a few times it would probably be alright. It was still added labor to an already somewhat time-consuming process, but at least it hadn't been something like flour or sugar.

He got to work.

✧✧✧

By afternoon, the oats were as clean as Flash could make them, and he got the fire started, and the water boiling, and set to making the best oatmeal porridge he could do. Currants and herbs, spices and the tiniest bit of musk, sugar and rosewater. A little bit of butter, too, to make things just that much richer.

As it was just simmering down, he also heated up a pan to fry some slices of salted pork, the very last of what they had until Harrison bought more food, and with everything finishing up he poured two generous cups of the last of their damson wine.

He was just serving everything up in the parlor when Harrison came home.

"Smells nice." Harrison seemed mild, when he came into the parlor. Not even drunk, just wind-tousled with an armful of packages. He didn't say what they were, only took them into the kitchen before taking a seat. "This the last of the non-perishables?"

Flash nodded. "I skipped as many meals as I could to make it last as long as possible." Maybe a little guilt would do his father good. "But this is all we have."

"I'll go to the market in the morning." He nodded toward the kitchen doorway. "Though I did stop at the butcher and the baker."

Flash brightened a little. "I can make you a list of what we need."

Harrison grunted as he dug into his food. Through a mouthful—"You do that."

No further conversation was to be had for the rest of the meal, and afterward Harrison left Flash to clean up so he could go to his study with an order that he not be disturbed.

Not a word of the ball, or of Flash leaving the house.

Flash kept himself composed, and after getting everything cleaned up and the new meat and bread put away, leaving his list on the counter, he went to his room to clean and change.

Careful, watchful, with his face freshly scrubbed and his hair newly curled, with rosewater dabbed under his arms and behind his ears, he put on his smock and his stays with his hand-carved busk tied securely into place. He hid these under a plain shirt with some nice red breeches—the best he owned—and the white doublet he'd put so much time into decorating. It may not have been the work of an expert seamstress, but looking at himself in the mirror he thought it looked nice. Striking, and beautiful with the flowers and leaves only a little crooked in places.

He smiled at his reflection, and reached for his crutch.

Only a quiet scuff alerted him to his father's approach, but he managed to turn to the door before Harrison leaned in, dressed in his finest with a badge pinned to his chest. Ready to go out, himself.

He looked at Flash, and Flash squared his shoulders as best he could.

Silence, for a moment.

"All your thread went to this?" Harrison raised his eyebrows, a bitter quirk to his mouth. "And where do you think you're going to wear that?"

Flash's heart sank, and his chest went cold.

"I thought…" He flexed his fingers, keeping his composure. "You said if I cleaned the oats—"

Harrison cut him off with a laugh.

It stung.

Knowing he'd been so foolish.

"You thought…" Harrison gestured toward him, leaning against the doorframe. "You thought you could go to the ball?" His expression twisted into one of mocking surprise. "You actually believed I would let you out of the house?" He laughed again, sharper, less amused. "And risk someone recognizing you? Risk my reputation? Do you want to ruin us?" His expression turned to one of anger.

Flash clenched his fingers, but shook his head.

"Do you want to live on the streets as a crippled beggar?"

Flash shook his head again, but that wasn't good enough—

"Don't just shake your head! Answer me, you stupid boy—" Harrison moved from the doorway into the room with a growl in his voice, though he didn't touch Flash. "Do you want to die in a ditch with no money to your name?! All for a silly _party_?!"

Flash kept his eyes down. "No, sir."

"That's what I thought." Harrison turned his back to his son.

For a long time, Flash just stood there beside his vanity, the open window blowing a soft cool breeze into his room. He listened to his father leave the house. Listened to the turn of the lock. To the owls outside and distantly, some whooping stranger.

Finally, Flash let his crutch fall, and threw himself against his bed, taking fistfuls of the sheets in his shaking fingers as he tried his hardest not to let out any of the feelings roiling in his breast. How could he have been so stupid? So gullible? How could he believe for even a second that this man would ever let him free?

He drew a hoarse breath and let it out in a half-formed sob, more a guttural cry of frustration than anything else. He would have leapt from the roof if he could, just to escape this place, and this bedroom.

Instead, he tore the linens from his bed and let out a full-body shout, before falling back against his mattress, all the energy suddenly drained from him. He breathed hard, and everything slowly subsided, until he just felt empty, and then…

Something tickled at the back of his hand.

He peered from one eye—it was a little brown spider. Plain and unafraid.

"You again." Flash swallowed down the tremble to his voice. "You think I'm pathetic, don't you?"

Naturally, the spider did not respond.

But it crawled up his arm, and Flash noted a few more spiders coming down from the ceiling on their fine gossamer threads, each to land on him. He pushed himself upright a little more steadily, and spread one arm, the other supporting him against the frame of the bed. The spiders moved with a purpose, more and more joining them, and somehow Flash felt unafraid.

The fabric of his clothes began to transform in front of Flash's very eyes.

In awe, Flash stepped away from the bed—so distracted by this magic that he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but amazement as the spiders enveloped him in shimmering silk and their own bodies. They seemed to turn to light and disappear into it, and he almost thought they might cocoon him up to eat but—

These sparkles of golden light…

The glow blinded him, surrounding him with the whisper of silk and spiders' legs.

When the light faded, not a spider in sight, Flash looked into the mirror.

A beautiful woman stared back, with her hair pulled up into freshly-picked blossoms that she recognized from the garden, tended by her own hand. A black velvet domino mask obscured part of her face, matching the ribbon around her throat, and her ringlets fell cleanly around her ears.

Flash twirled a little, to look down at her clothes. Her clumsily embroidered doublet had become a stunning white bodice with the most beautiful floral needlework, and her breeches had become a voluminous silk skirt of the most vibrant red. Huge slashed sleeves to match, and lace edges peeking from under her bodice. She lifted her skirts to see the black and white petticoats underneath, and gasped slightly.

She still didn't have legs, but the replacements were so much finer—like a doll's, or some sort of automaton, with jointed knees and a smooth enough surface that a pair of delicate black hose came up past them without even a snag, fastened with black velvet ribbon to match the huge bows on her sleeves and waist.

And at the ends, dainty little white shoes, decorated to match the stomacher and bodice of her gown.

"Oh…" She let her skirts fall and turned about in place, feeling the way her body moved. The same as always, but a little more steady, like something held her balance for her. She held her hands to her torso, smooth and well-supported. "How…?"

How had this happened?

For what reason?

To escape?

For the ball?

Could she leave this awful house?

Her eyes caught on the boughs of the damson tree in the garden, and she grinned as an idea formed in her head.

✧✧✧

([xoxo](https://hoardlikegoldenirises.tumblr.com/post/613820889100959744))

✧✧✧

Flash arrived late, on foot—miracle of miracles, the shoes and dress were unmarred by mud or dust, and the formed legs caused no pain or soreness in the thighs or hips, and they moved almost as if natural. She took a moment just to marvel at the perfect silks, and finally entered the palace grounds.

It had been… a very long time since she wandered these gardens with Mary Jane and the others. A very long time.

If she weren't already late, she would have been by the time she reached the ball proper—so distracted by the old familiarity of flowering trees and hedges that had grown in all new ways since the last time Flash set foot here, as a rowdy youth. One of the trees, Flash remembered being fifteen or so and pushing Peter out and then immediately falling after, landing in a heap of laughter and Peter's protests while Gwen looked on as if she were totally unaffected—but her eyes had been full of mirth.

And there, a fountain Flash had sat beside, holding a long conversation with Harry one morning.

So many memories.

The palace loomed unchanged, hundreds of glass windows glittering in the sunset like diamonds.

Flash let her father's spare cloak be taken, as she entered, revealing her gown.

A few people's heads turned.

It had been so long since anyone but her father had seen her that for a second Flash's heart skipped—they would recognize her, call her out as Harrison's dead boy, raise a cry—

But all she heard were quiet whispers of, "beautiful" and "what a color" and "I wonder who she is?"

Almost everyone was masked, and Flash had forgotten the black velvet framing her own eyes. She reached up to touch it, running a finger along the edge, and wondered if she _did_ know any of the others here, behind various masks ranging from glamorous and over the top to just as simple as her own.

The ball opened up before her into light and sound and smell—finger foods and drinks within reach everywhere she turned, and then the main floor with people dancing and courting to the soft strains of a chamber orchestra. Flash spun slowly, just taking it all in, remembering a dance with Liz out in the middle of the room once, six years ago. He in plain blue and she in a golden dress…

Flash accidentally bumped into someone, stumbling slightly—

"Oh, I'm so sorry—" Careful to jump back before the stranger could help steady her arm.

The man dipped into a low bow, doffing his broad-brimmed silver silken hat, and Flash's heart fluttered. He was a little on the short side, and wore a mask, long and beaked like a doctor's in green-dyed leather to match his pumps. His clothes were resplendent in deep purple, decorated all over in silver needlework.

Whispers surrounded them, as Flash stood with a hand to her chest, unsure what to do.

"I should be the one apologizing, dear lady."

That voice…

 _Harry_?

Flash fell into a deep, clumsy curtsy, unpracticed and unfamiliar. Some of the whispers subsided, satisfied by the proper show of respect.

"Your highness—" Flash ducked her head, heat flushing up her face and neck, and turned her right shoulder to Harry even as he reached for her hand.

"Shall I escort you?"

This just wouldn't do. This was dangerous.

"I—" Flash clutched her hand to her chest and looked around a little desperately.

A man caught her eye, and she his.

He stuck out like a sore thumb with his sober dress, except for a large scarlet beret (despite not having a mask to justify its use indoors). Simple, round spectacles. Under that, his hair was cropped short, wildly different from the chin-to-shoulder length curls most of the other men sported with their masks.

The man looked at Flash, and Flash looked at him, and for a moment it felt like there was no one else in the world.

A quiet curse snapped Flash out of it, Harry's whisper—"Dammit, Peter."

"Peter…?"

As in _Peter Parker_?!

The prince sighed. "Yes. You can go—I'll find someone else to dance with."

Poor Harry… Flash at least offered him one last curtsy and a smile before turning to catch Peter's eye again. He tilted his cap a little, though he didn't remove it, and nodded toward her with a smile—she smiled back, ducking her head a little.

Flirting—she didn't know how to flirt with men or anyone else, really, but Peter had grown so…

 _Handsome_.

And tall.

Her fears of discovery and recognition faded as he approached. He'd always been able to put Flash at ease, even as bickering teens…

"You're Peter Parker?"

"Have we met?" He bowed, a slight smirk turning up his mouth as he kissed the back of his own hand. Flash had seen that look before, a long time ago…

"Oh—" She blushed a little under his gaze, and curtsied much more elegantly than the first time. "I can't say that we have."

"And yet, you know me."

Flash bit her lip to keep from laughing. "I don't think I do."

Peter laughed, himself, and caught her fingers in his own.

"Alright, stranger." He pulled Flash close, and Flash wasn't so sure about the etiquette of dancing or contact between people of _any_ sex, but she thought maybe this was a little closer than was polite. His hands settled at her waist, strong and firm. "Dance with me?"

A small laugh finally escaped unbidden from Flash's chest, as she realized—

"I don't know _how_!"

At least, not a woman's part.

Peter paused, curiosity on his face. And that smirk, again, as he gave her a look up and down. "I'm sure I can teach you."

Flirtatious.

He pulled back from her just a little, taking hold of her hands again, and guided her into place as the music started a new movement. His smirk softened, and he added, "Just follow my lead."

Peter turned out to be a very good teacher, and Flash listened carefully to him as well as observing the other dancers around them, so when Peter passed Flash off to another man, she wasn't so nervous about messing up. And he kept looking over, when he spun in range, checking in on her with this look in his eye somewhere between approving and amused.

They met and parted and came together and spun apart, and danced for what must have been an hour.

When they whirled back together for the final time, Peter grinned and said, "You only tripped three times."

Flash wrinkled her nose and thwapped him on the shoulder. "You're terrible."

Peter captured her hand and raised it to his lips, a kiss to her bare palm.

"Maybe." His eyes were dark, and arresting. "I have it on good word that I'm also _very_ charming."

Flash scoffed. "And full of yourself."

"Oh, abso- _lutely_." Peter let Flash's hand go. "Do you need to take a break?"

Flash looked at him—his round glasses and his red hat and his strong features, so different from how he'd looked as a boy yet so undeniably the same—and smiled. "Only if you come with me."

Peter held out his elbow. "To the ends of the earth, my lady."

✧✧✧

Flash turned down an offer of dandelion wine, but accepted a cream-filled hand pie, sweet with peach preserves. Possibly the nicest treat she'd had in months, still just a little bit warm.

"You look pleased." Peter leaned against the wall a respectful distance from Flash, neither facing the other fully, though he looked at her with a playful smile. "You're very pretty."

What a _flirt_.

Was this really the boy Flash had been rivals with, at the age of sixteen?

She laughed—shy in a way she'd never felt before. "You can't even see my face."

Peter snagged a drink from a passing hand, which seemed to go unnoticed, and said, "But I can tell," before taking a sip. He considered her, as he lowered his drink. "You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

No, in fact, but Peter didn't need to know.

"Oh, I don't know." Flash feigned an airy detachment. "I wouldn't mind hearing it again."

Peter grinned.

But…

"Then I'll say it again." He tipped his cup toward her. "You have beautiful eyes."

Flash bit back more laughter—she hadn't laughed this much in ages, and she felt so light and faint. It was a good feeling. Looking at Peter only deepened it, so the tips of her ears burned under his dark gaze. Flash came down slightly, a little breathless, and broke eye contact to stare up at the ceiling and will herself calmer.

The chandelier in the center of the ceiling glimmered and sparkled, and below it the guests' gowns and masks did the same.

She could feel Peter shift closer. Peek at him just out of the corner of her eye, a little obscured by her velvet mask. She pretended not to notice, turning her head slightly away. Copying a little bit of what she'd seen other ladies do throughout the night, under male attention. Coy. Peter found her hand, and lifted it to his lips.

Flash couldn't help but turn towards him, just a hair.

His smug smile should have irritated her more…

Peter leaned close, breath warm against Flash's ear, drawing a shiver as he whispered, "Join me somewhere a little more private…"

He hardly even needed to ask.

Flash bit down on a grin with a thrill through her chest, and ducked away from the party hand-in-hand with Peter Parker.

✧✧✧

"I really _do_ feel like I know you." Peter's voice was a soft whisper against Flash's skin, as he kissed at her throat (just under the line of velvet adorning it) in the shadows of a secluded, unlit chamber—off a ways from the ballroom proper, his beret lost somewhere on the floor nearby. "I can't explain it, but my whole being aches with it."

Oh, a _poet_ now, was he?

Flash tilted her head back against the wall, letting out a breath. She hadn't been touched like this in such a long time, it was overwhelming. "I know…" She held back the urge to tell him everything. "I can't…"

"Can't…?" Peter pulled back, his hands at Flash's waist. "You want me to stop?"

Oh, no—"No!" Flash grabbed his wrist. Realized, and calmed herself, loosening her grip. "Please, don't." She evened her breathing. "It's just that I haven't—"

Peter's eyes held hers, dark and intense, hanging on to her every word as if studying her.

"I haven't left the house in six years." It sounded pathetic coming from her mouth, almost anticlimactic, but she didn't know what else to say… And if she couldn't tell Peter who she was she could at least be this honest. "This is the first time anyone has touched me like this..."

His whole demeanor shifted, a frown creasing his forehead, and that expression—she'd seen that expression a thousand times on this face, deep in thought doing one thing or another; speaking to his aunt or reading a book or helping a lost child... Helping Flash with a black eye after a bad day, when they were younger. That was Peter Parker, through and through, and it sent a pang through Flash's chest. Longing—how badly she missed his friendship.

"Six years?" He brushed the backs of his fingers across Flash's jaw, gentle as anything.

"My father doesn't let me out." Flash held his gaze. Willing him, in some way, to understand. To see through the mask and the skirts and the passage of time turning youth into adulthood. "He doesn't know I'm here."

No such recognition.

"That's awful." Peter cupped Flash's face in his hands, fingers long and cool on her skin. She closed her eyes and soaked in that feeling, curling her fingers into the front of his navy blue doublet. If she could just stay like this forever…

She kissed Peter, putting her whole heart into it.

His arms came around her, and they pressed close in every way they could. They broke for air, once, twice, three times, and Peter steered Flash away from the wall, to the moonlit couch under the window. They sat, still kissing, and Flash ran her fingers over the short hair on the back of Peter's head. He sighed, his own hands stroking across the floral silk of her bodice.

"May I…?"

Flash kissed across his cheek, to his ear, with a murmured, "Please."

That seemed to be all he needed, clever fingers unfastening the embroidered stomacher from the soft cloth bodice so he could unlace the small front panel and push it down over her shoulders, revealing the stays underneath.

Much nicer than they were before, from simple undyed cloth to brilliant white silk satin.

Peter coaxed Flash down against the upholstery, with his hands firm on the boned silk.

They kissed a little more, slowly and gently. Just that, Peter's lips surprisingly soft and warm. Six years ago, maybe Flash had daydreamed about this—even as a gawky, awkward young man, Peter had always had this… _gravity_ about him. This magnetic draw. Now, grown into himself…

Flash reached for his hands, guiding them down the front of her tightly-laced stays. Not toward where the ends were tucked, but to where the busk was tied, with a little white ribbon bow that Peter pulled free at her urging.

"A token…" Flash moved to tie the ribbon around Peter's wrist, tongue darting out in concentration.

The second she knotted the bow Peter leaned down to kiss her again, his hands going back to her laces.

He found the ends tucked into the top of her stays and pulled them free, running his fingers down and loosening the whole thing with deft fingers so he could slip his hand up between structure and smock. Flash let out a sigh against his mouth, before he trailed a kiss down the side of her chin. Down her neck, to her collarbone.

Everything was so… So warm, and close, and stimulating. Flash's breath caught, as Peter hooked one of her legs over his hip—he paused. She froze, full of ice. He leaned back, and ran his hand carefully down her thigh. Flash let out a slow breath, as Peter focused on the leg itself.

"Is this… wood?" He turned Flash's leg just so, and she let him.

Quietly, as Peter loosened the ribbon around her jointed knee to pull down her hose, Flash whispered, "Yes, both of them..."

Though Flash couldn't fully make out Peter's features in the moonlight and dark shadows, she could feel the way he marveled. Not physically, but like a spiritual sensation, as he explored the nerveless wood of her legs.

"This craftsmanship…" Peter slipped one of her pumps off, taking the hose with it, as he shifted to support her leg like the most priceless treasure he had seen. "I've never seen anything like it…"

It was a little awkward for Flash, bending her hips odd, but the way he murmured, " _Beautiful_ ," as he turned her ankle…

Flash could lay like this for hours if it meant being treated with such reverence.

Peter kissed her knee.

And higher (or was it lower?) until his lips found skin. Flash held her breath, but Peter just kept kissing.

He only paused a moment to ask, muffled under her skirts, "Do you mind if I…?"

Flash laughed breathlessly. "No, no, I don't mind—" She cut herself off with a gasp.

Oh, but Peter was good with his mouth.

✧✧✧

" _But he hath eyes so round and bright…_ "

Peter laughed quietly, and whispered against Flash's lips, "What is that?"

" _As make away my doubt…_ " She smiled against his kiss. "Ben Jonson."

A hum, and Peter settled her against his chest more firmly, laying on the couch together with half their clothes thrown off, just relaxing. "Should I worry about competition?"

A teasing angle to his tone.

Flash snorted, and let herself laugh with her head fallen against Peter's shoulder. "No—" She composed herself. "No, _sir_ —he's much too old for me."

"I think he's _dead_ , too." Peter ran his hands down Flash's back, not bare but close to it with the stays pulled wide open and the shirt the thinnest protection. "Or maybe that was Thomas Freeman… Not that I'm a poetry expert, but I think Mary Jane may have mentioned it."

At mention of Mary Jane, Flash sobered, and closed her eyes against the darkness. She missed Mary Jane, but she couldn't say that. She'd only let Peter take off her mask because he wouldn't be able to see her in the dark room they'd secreted themselves into. More than that was toeing into dangerous territory, playing with fate.

Even though, in her heart, Flash hoped that if anyone found out…

But she couldn't risk it.

Not with that thorn in her thoughts saying that nothing would change. That Harrison's old position would matter more than any friendship. That no one would help, and she would be locked up again but this time with the knowledge that no one cared.

Flash took a steadying breath.

"Hey," Peter raised a hand to the back of her head. "I'm sorry, did you not know?"

Not know…?

Oh, the poet.

"I'm fine." Flash passed it off with a slightly watery laugh. "It's just been… an overwhelming night."

And that was true.

All the dancing and the lights, and then the darkness and trading touches with Peter so intimately, knowing he didn't know her at all despite how well she remembered him. His hands so firm and gentle. So much lithe muscle hidden under his clothes, now…

"I'll be okay."

"Okay." Peter stroked his fingers through her hair, soft.

And then he added, "Are you sure you won't tell me your name?"

Flash sighed. She could tell him… She should tell him…

"I—"

The clock in the black corner of the room began to strike the time.

Flash's blood ran cold.

It was late—it was _so_ late. How long had they been together? If her father went home to find her gone—

"I have to go!" Flash nearly fall, pushing herself off of Peter. She scrambled in the dark for her things, pulling on her bodice with its voluminous slashed sleeves, breath tight in her chest.

"Wait—"

She ignored Peter's request, fumbling her velvet mask up back onto her face from where it hung around her neck. There was no time, no time at all, with the clock striking midnight, and Peter's hand at her elbow.

Flash found her other shoe—shook his hand loose and ran.

One missing stocking, missing stomacher, somewhere in the shadows that wooden busk she had poured so much time into carving by hand—but she ran without them, her steps awkward and heavy.

"Wait!"

Block it out—block out Peter's voice, and the lingering warmth of his body.

Flash made it through the crowd, losing him somewhere amongst the masked faces and luminous gowns. Without that, she never would have managed to escape, with how clumsily she ran. Years out of practice and all wooden on top of it. But she managed to get out of the palace, past the old garden haunted by her memories, fleeing to the street.

She leapt into a carriage just as it began to move—the passenger shrieked.

Again, distantly, she could just make out Peter calling for her.

But it was too late for him to reach her despite his long legs, and she sank to the floor in front of the seat with a trembling sigh as the woman already seated exclaimed, "Oh, Heavens! You gave me the fright of my life! But are you alright? You look like you've been attacked!"

✧✧✧

The house was dark and the front door locked tight when Flash made it home.

Up and over, back into the garden to sneak inside…

The clothes began to dissolve, and pieces of Flash's wooden legs began to chip away and melt where they touched the ground, until he stood in his room on his old peg legs, in simple red breeches, with his hand-embroidered doublet hanging open over his shirt and untied stays. His stomacher missing, with his busk and the white ribbon point. Nothing left of the night, except memories.

Just like before.

Flash turned his face up to the ceiling with a few long, deep breaths, and began to laugh.

Safe home, after his first night out in years—and what a night it had been.

His laughter turned to sobs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's POV!

Peter lost the woman for good somewhere around the gardens, only a glimpse of lamp-lit scarlet fabric before she disappeared and he was left panting next to the pitched road, disheveled in his own right and half-blind without his glasses. A few people murmured, and he hurriedly did up his doublet and straightened his breeches. In the scuffle he'd even forgotten his beret—another blow to his dignity and honor.

With dwindling hopes, Peter craned around one last time to see if she might not be hiding somewhere near, but no. Not that he could see.

Just a receding carriage or two, a few people out for the night air…

"Just my luck…"

To meet a beautiful woman, and to lose her just as quickly.

Brilliant sharp eyes and soft ringlets, and a dimpled smile that was so open—like she was experiencing every flirtation for the first time, simultaneously shy and forward all at once…

Peter longed for her.

Dejected, he returned along the path through the garden. There was a tree there, which he'd fallen out of several years ago, and now the memory returned. A memory of the dead… Flash Thompson, so vibrant and young.

Sure, he'd been the one to push Peter out of the tree, and Peter had suffered from a broken arm… but really it hadn't been such a bad break, and it was hard to think poorly of a memory full of so much laughter and naïve youth. Especially when he still missed his friend so much, six years after his death.

Here he was, pining over a woman he'd only just met when he had so much more to mourn.

It never ended, did it?

Peter let himself lean against a lamppost with his eyes closed, just a moment, before heading back inside.

✧✧✧

The woman—what else could he call her but that? His soulmate? His love? The stranger had left behind a few things, and when Peter lit the candles in the room she'd fled from so suddenly, her lost belongings seemed almost to glitter. Peter stooped to pick them up, one at a time.

A singular black stocking, the clock embroidered with flowers to match her bodice. And from the bodice, that silk stomach cover itself, with a rose in the center, a gentle pink. There was the stiffened, boned stomacher from the set of bodies she wore, as well. As Peter picked that up, the busk within slipped out and clattered to the floor.

He retrieved it, and turned it over in his hand. A yellowish hardwood, with a delicate but distinct smell—maybe its own, maybe from her skin or her clothing. Peter ran his thumb over the carvings. Did she have a lover already, who had made this for her? Was that why she had been so reluctant to tell him her name?

But even among all the flowers etched in, all the butterflies and poetry, none of it seemed romantic. Not a heart, nor a cupid's arrow. No couplets of adoration, only of hope and freedom. The only potential hint, the initials "E.T."

"You carved this yourself…" Peter didn't know how he knew, but it felt right. That she had put her heart into this single wooden busk, a salve for her imprisonment…

He pressed it to his lips, softly, before carefully slipping it through the pocket slit of his breeches...

Peter's brain began to fly the way it always did with a puzzle.

✧✧✧

By the time Peter made it to his chambers, half of the unknown woman's things had dissolved.

It was strange—unexplainable—but the silk and the hose just disintegrated in his fingers, leaving him with underthings only. No hose, no needlework bodice. Just these pieces of a woman's stays; boned triangular stomacher in off-white linen, visibly handmade with crooked stitches. The weight of the wooden busk in his pocket, unchanged… and the simple white ribbon tied around his wrist.

He was thankful for that, at least.

This small token that proved she had been real even if the number of reminders had melted to half as many.

Peter laid the stomacher out on his bed, with the busk beside it.

He considered them, and the ribbon on his wrist.

"I have to find her." Spoken out loud with only air as witness.

He grabbed paper and ink, and as quick as he could, began to scratch out his plan.

✧✧✧

Try as he might, Peter couldn't focus on his projects. Various bits of mechanical work littered his desk, wood and metal. Hinges and joints, paper and scrap, a thick lead pencil. He just stared down at his notes and diagrams unable to absorb a single thing he'd planned out. One hand pressed to his own skull, and the other tapped restlessly against the table.

With an exasperated huff, he pushed his chair back and stood, moving to pace back and forth in his study with his hands running over his cropped hair.

He couldn't get her out of his head.

The blue-green color of her eyes, like glass. Her calloused hands and dimpled smile. Warm, and equal parts soft and firm. Push and pull, give and take. Her voice just on the low, sweet side of hoarse when she breathed his name. Like it fit so familiar in her mouth, like it belonged there. Like Peter belonged in her arms and she in his.

Peter shook himself out with a deep breath.

"Get ahold of yourself, Parker."

He hardly knew anything about her.

He didn't even know her _name_.

He knew she was beautiful and that he wanted to kiss her again, that she was tragic and probably suffering every moment he delayed finding her. But that was self-centered, to think he was her savior or that she languished without him. She might have been perfectly fine. It may have even been a lie, her story about the isolation her father forced upon her. But somehow, Peter felt she had been telling the truth.

Something in her demeanor…

And the longer he thought about her, the less he could shake the feeling that he _knew_ her.

Those _eyes_ , those _hands_ , that _mouth_ …

Peter left his study in a state of disarray, dragging his sewing form out into the middle of the room.

A poor stand-in for a person, but he grabbed a sheet of paper and scraped out a rough approximation of a face with his drafting pencil, as close as he could remember. Laughing eyes, dimpled smile. He tacked it to the mannequin's head and pinned the body with sheets and finally stood staring at it, hands on his hips.

"Who are you?"

He circled his dress form with an eye for scrutiny. Reached out to pull his hand around its waist as he thought.

"A woman I've never seen, yet so familiar." He stopped with both hands around the waist. "Haven't left the house in six years."

Six years…

Coming up on the sixth anniversary of Flash's death, soon. An unhappy reminder.

Peter came back around to the front to stare at his own crude drawing, pinned to the mannequin's cushioned face.

"I'm talking to a dummy!" He whirled, throwing his hands into the air.

Just stood, with his head tilted back as he let his arms fall to his sides. He closed his eyes and remembered her.

Sharp features, soft framing. Honey-colored hair. Who did he know with honey-colored hair? Who did he know with dimples? Who with delicate hands and narrow hips and strong shoulders and a hint of literary prowess? With legs missing from above the knee?

Who said his name with such familiarity?

Laughing at him, but fondly.

Nestled snugly between Gwen and Mary Jane, the center of a gradient with arms spread across their shoulders. Teasing. Young. All of them so young. As if Peter weren't _still_ young himself, even now, only twenty-two. Still a youth, in his own way, even if Flash had always poked fun at his old soul and serious demeanor.

Flash, who had died during the procedure to amputate both his legs, following a horrible accident.

" _No_." Peter's eyes snapped open. "It can't be."

He was _dead_.

Peter nearly tripped over his own feet to retrieve the stranger's belongings where he'd stashed them. The busk, again he inspected it—the initials. It had to be. Nothing else made sense.

Something had fluttered to the floor in the shuffle and now Peter almost stepped on it.

He bent to pick it up.

It was a sketch in charcoal and lead, shaken loose from the others where he stored them. Long-forgotten, protected from smudging and light. He stared at it, holding it up in his line-of-sight, in front of the dress form.

Sixteen year old Eugene Thompson grinned back out at him, impressionistic but deeply familiar, with his dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes, and chin-length curls. Six years ago and Peter's artistic talents hadn't been quite so refined but it was still clearly recognizable and now he couldn’t deny it.

Peter ran from his room, paper clutched in his hand.

✧✧✧

He'd gotten everyone together.

Harry, Gwendolyn, Mary Jane, and both Elizabeths—Betty and Liz—all sat in a circle around Flash's portrait, somber as one might expect. An occasion to wonder at, with people of all different classes equal with the prince in this moment. All with one connection, to one son of a retired guardsman.

"Peter…" Liz sighed, with Harry's hand brushing her elbow. "As much as I want this to be true…"

MJ leaned to whisper something in Gwen's ear. Gwen responded in kind. Betty looked uncomfortable.

Harry spoke, then. "We don't want you to get hurt."

He did not add that none of them wanted to hurt themselves, either, by getting their hopes up.

Who could blame them?

Peter removed his glasses from their careful perch on his face, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache that threatened to build in the front of his skull.

"I know." He sighed. "I know, but there's this _feeling_ …" He almost laughed, bitterly. "Listen to me. I sound like a madman."

Gwen bit her lip, but she pulled the picture closer to look at it. Traced her finger around the shape of Flash's head. She looked up at Peter, something heavy in her blue eyes. "If this is true…" She held him with her gaze, sharp and scrutinizing. "If your theory is true, we can't stand idly by. But we also can't simply charge to the Thompsons' house demanding Flash be led out, assuming he's even there."

"He _has_ to be—" Peter gathered himself, and breathed out. "You're right, though. You're right. Maybe you could speak to _your_ father?"

The _actual_ Captain of the Guard—and capable.

Gwen watched him a moment longer, but nodded. "I can talk to him." She stood, and Mary Jane followed. "But without proof, I don't think he'll listen." She hesitated, half-turned away. "I believe you, Peter."

"I want to." MJ took Gwen's arm, and they left.

✧✧✧

Peter imagined he'd pace a hole in the floor if he kept this up, so with his plans forming and his thoughts roiling, he grabbed his cloak and left his quarters. Thompson lived nearby, having once been part of the royal guard himself—with a whole family he'd only spent some time on the palace grounds, and he'd been retired since before Peter ever met him. And he'd only met him once or twice, on the rare occasion Flash's business took him away from his own guardsman lodgings, or brought Harrison to him.

A short enough walk, with the sun setting. His soft cap barely shading his eyes.

He asked around, as unsuspicious as he could be.

One person—"Thompson? Oh, yeah, he lives right over there, though you'd hardly know it with how often he spends out of the house."

Another—"I thought I saw a woman climb out over the plum tree the other day."

And their companion—"No way! The old man lives alone. Didn't you hear what happened to his son?"

Further murmurs of gossip, and Peter left them to their walk.

He stole up to a house across the way, pretending to admire some blossoming hedges along the edge of the road. Waiting… Biding his time… Spying on the shadow that moved in front of the various windows at the front of the house. Until…

The door opened, and Harrison Thompson—grey and grizzled—left his house in the glow of evening.

Of course he locked up as he left, but Peter hadn't expected this to be as easy as walking right in. He waited for Harrison to walk out of sight, and hurried over. There was a narrow lane between the Thompson house and the neighbor's, and it was this which Peter squeezed himself through.

The garden was entirely walled off, impossible to see into, with bushes and small trees peeking out over the top… Covered with moss and ivy. But there was a woody vine creeping up from the alley, and the plum tree in the yard seemed to almost sag out over the edges, shedding petals occasionally.

Peter hauled himself up, and climbed down the plum tree without too much difficulty—his weight sent a shower of blossoms to the ground below.

The garden was beautiful. Full of flowers, with a fountain carved into some kind of beast, stoppered to keep the water in and presumably draining down into a cistern. Peter crept closer, peering up at the back of the house.

He tried the door into the kitchen first—

Locked.

There was a window, and from it a soft yellow glow, in the darkening light.

Peter stooped, taking a pebble into his fingers…

It clinked against the window, when he threw it.

For a moment, nothing.

Peter threw another pebble.

…Nothing.

He sighed and sank down to sit beneath the damson tree, a stray blossom landing on his hat.

Something tickled the back of his hand, and he looked down to see a spider perched there, plain and brown. Peter turned his hand over, and it crawled onto his open palm.

"I don't suppose you could tell me if I'm in the right place, or not?"

The spider did not answer.

It scuttled off of his hand, though, moving only a short distance away to settle beside another little pebble.

"Alright, fine." Peter reached for the small stone, and the spider stood its ground. What a strange little bug. But Peter tossed this pebble, too, and threw it so it hit the window above, square in the center.

The light inside seemed to shift slightly, and Peter held his breath.

It seemed like forever, but finally… Finally, a silhouette popped up into view. Froze for a moment, and then the window opened a crack.

" _Peter?!_ " Hushed, but sharp.

Peter hurried over, barely even stopping to think before vaulting up the side of the house with the help of the fountain. He pulled himself up, and managed to hang there, standing on top of the basin.

The figure startled, and Peter…

"It _is_ you."

Peter stared.

Flash stared, too.

And then—"How did you _find_ me?"

Peter smiled, suddenly a little breathless, like his heart was in his throat. He steadied himself atop his perch with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, to pull out that intimate piece of wood, which he slipped through the narrow open space of the window.

"You forgot this."

Flash turned his busk over in his hands, wordless… He looked back to Peter, his expression full of hope and shadows.

Peter pulled the missing piece from Flash's bodies out too, from where he'd stashed it under his doublet, and managed to put that through the window as well. Flash fumbled for it, spreading it on his lap.

Finally, Flash murmured, "You came for me…?"

"Of _course_ I did." Peter reached through the window as best he could, its opening too narrow to fit much more than his hand and wrist. "You're beautiful." He caught himself. "I didn't—I came for you because I missed you, not because you're beautiful. I just… had to say it."

Flash laughed quietly under his breath, leaning against the window frame so he could press Peter's hand to his cheek. "I missed you too." He kissed Peter's fingers, his thumb brushing against the ribbon he himself had tied to Peter's wrist so recently. "I never thought I'd see you again…"

Peter wished so badly he could do more than this—wished he could hold Flash, and kiss him. The best he could do was catch his hand—so small in Peter's now, when it had used to be so much larger—and switch whose arm was through the window, to press a kiss to Flash's rough knuckles and calloused palm.

Gently, Flash held Peter's face the same way Peter had held his just moments before, and they both leaned against the window in their own manner, just feeling each other's presence.

But Peter couldn't stand on top of the fountain basin forever, hanging off the side of the house as it grew dark.

"I talked to the others." Peter let Flash go so he could better steady himself. "They trust me, but I—"

Flash's eyebrows drew together into a knot Peter wished he could kiss away.

"I promise—" Peter tried to show just how much he meant it, on his face. "I promise I'll return for you." He slipped just his fingers over the edge of the window, so Flash could do the same. "Even if I have to do it alone."

Wordlessly, Flash nodded.

Peter hopped down—not to leave, not yet. He broke off a tiny twig from the plum tree, with a blossom on the end, and ran to pull himself back up the side of the house again.

"Take this." Peter pushed it through the window, into Flash's waiting hand. "I know it's not much of a token, considering it's from your own garden but…" He let his touch linger as much as he could. "Take it anyway."

"Okay." Flash looked away, holding the flower tight.

Peter kissed the windowpane.

"Goodnight…"

He made to leave, landing below among the smell of the flowers as the evening became night in earnest—

"Wait—"

Peter turned at Flash's voice.

Flash ducked down from the window, and Peter waited for a reappearance. He could hear shuffling, and after a moment Flash did indeed pop up again—he dangled his hand out the window, with a folded piece of paper catching the late evening sunlight. He let it fall, and Peter was quick to snatch it from the air before it could touch the ground. He looked up at Flash, questioning.

"It's… poetry." Flash's silhouette shifted, maybe bashful. "I wrote it."

Peter beamed, pressing the paper to his chest. "I'll treasure it forever."

He climbed atop the fountain one last time to kiss Flash's fingertips through the open window, and then he left the way he had come. Out over the plum tree—where he lingered only briefly in the spindly branches to gaze at Flash's golden window—to leap down to the alleyway below. Out to the street once more, and Peter practically broke into a run the second his feet found paving.

✧✧✧

Peter pored over the poem a thousand times (or maybe closer to a half dozen), back in his study.

The paper had the faintest rosewater smell, and he rested his head on his desk carefully beside it, just running his finger over the words. This, more than almost anything, felt like potential proof. Flash's handwriting and spelling had hardly changed since he was a teenager, and Peter had a scrap of some silly limerick he'd written to compare it to. Peter hardly knew another soul who spelled the word "furste" but here were two examples in the same hand.

He gathered his evidence to bring to Gwen's father.

Captain Stacy proved more cooperative than expected. But maybe that was Gwen's influence, sitting inconspicuously behind her father, pretending to busy herself as Peter pointed out the similarities in handwriting and explained how he had met Flash during the night, and confirmed his existence himself.

"Goodman Parker." The Captain inspected the poems with one last glance, and Gwen cleared her throat as if to rid herself of a cough. "I will send a small squadron as soon as I may spare them."

Gwen raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

Peter sighed, but nodded. "Of course. Thank you, sir."

He knew an empty promise when he heard one.

Gwen made a face and Peter shook his head, but he gave her a little bow as he left. She'd tried her best, but even with her cleverness there was a limit to her influence, and no royal Captain in his right mind would want to listen to the court's red cap-wearing, low-born chemist who only had a position as a favor to the prince.

Peter would have to implement an alternate plan.

He fiddled with the ribbon around his wrist as he considered his options.

✧✧✧

Peter's heart hammered in his ears as he strode up to the door of the house with the plum tree, and raised his hand to knock. Three raps, loud and firm, and he swallowed down his nerves. Nothing to get worked up about. Sure, his only backup was a coach driver, but that was fine.

Flash's father opened the door, with lines drawn in his face and bloodshot eyes.

"What do you want?"

Peter took a deep breath, straightening to show his six-foot height with confidence.

He tipped his hat slightly, as he asked, "Harrison Thompson?"

Just in case.

Harrison narrowed his eyes. "Yes… That's me."

Peter punched him in the face.

Maybe it was the shock, maybe the booze, but Harrison went down like a fallen tree, tripping over his own feet. Peter wasted no time in immediately going through his pockets. All he needed was—a pair of keys, wonderful. Peter left him unconscious on the floor and hurried through the house until he found the stairs.

He unlocked Flash's bedroom door—

Flash blinked at him from where he sat by the window, perched on the stool from his vanity.

"Were you waiting for me?" Peter grinned, blood still pumping as he pocketed the keys.

He noted that Flash's prosthetic legs were nowhere in sight.

"I was—well." Flash shrugged a little. "I thought maybe you might come visit again…" He smiled, a slight flush to his face, and fidgeted his fingers in his lap. "I guess you did."

"I did." Peter stood looking at him a moment longer, and Flash looked back, the air between them a strange barrier. But he pushed forward, and then it was all he could do to keep from squeezing too tight as he swept Flash up into his arms. "I promised!"

Flash hugged him tightly, and whispered, "You did."

Peter stood there in the center of Flash's room for a few seconds, holding Flash. And Flash held onto him, with arms around his shoulders and Peter's hands snugly fit under his bottom. Just feeling each other close, body-to-body. Flash's breath was warm on Peter's neck, and he nudged at him until he leaned back.

They looked at each other.

Flash kissed Peter, fisting his fingers into Peter's cap. Peter kissed back just as eagerly, careful not to drop Flash. But they had to part, simply because there was no telling how long Harrison would be out for, or whether someone might try to report Peter for assault and battery.

"I have a carriage waiting." Peter brushed their noses together delicately. "Your things…?"

Flash kissed him again, light and soft. "Packed." He embraced Peter tightly again. "In the chest at the foot of the bed."

Ah. Peter took note of that.

"Legs?"

Flash sighed.

"I'll make you new ones." Peter kissed at the side of Flash's head, and made to carry him out.

✧✧✧

"Ta-daa!"

Everyone gaped at Peter, as he showed off Flash, slung on his back.

Flash waved a hand. "Hello."

A second of silence elapsed before everyone began to talk over everyone else, each of them scrambling close to reach out. Flash reached back, letting his old friends touch his face and his shoulders almost reverently. Peter smiled, and gave Flash's thighs a gentle squeeze. He didn't mind being furniture for a few minutes, though Flash wasn’t the lightest cargo he'd ever carried. It was nice, the affection on display.

The others had missed Flash just as much as Peter had.

As much as Flash had missed them.

Gwen leaned close to Peter and whispered, "I'll tell my father not to bother with that squadron." Her eye twinkled, and Peter feigned innocence.

"I don't know what you could possibly mean."

She laughed under her breath, and turned her attention back to Flash.


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and they lived happily ever after  
> the end

Flash woke to a gentle touch—Peter's finger, brushing a stray curl out of the way. He leaned close in the candlelight, squinting slightly without his glasses. Such wonder and softness in his expression, as his eyes met Flash's and he smiled a little crookedly. Like he'd been caught with a handful of sweets.

"Sorry." He cupped Flash's face. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Who could possibly mind this, though?

"I don't mind."

It had been a long day. Overwhelming—everyone touching Flash. Hugging and ushering along and plying with food and drink. All after six years of none of that. Six years of near-total isolation. Tears may have been involved, mostly of the happy sort and some of the desperately-in-need-of-a-break sort.

But now…

Flash pulled Peter down into a kiss, slow and leisurely. To do this, without any worry. No deadline, no overseer, just Flash and Peter together… Warm lips, and slightly cool fingers, as Peter slipped his hand up underneath Flash's rucked-up smock. Flash encouraged him with a sigh, reaching to push his hand up where it was most welcome.

This was good. This was, in its own way, overwhelming. But it was in such small pieces, such small and intimate steps, that it manifested more as a rush of excitement and butterflies so that even the most chaste touch made Flash blush all over. So unused to it.

"You're gorgeous." Peter spoke against Flash's mouth, a quiet mumble. "Do you know how gorgeous you are?"

Flash laughed, breathless. "You're a _flatterer_."

Peter grinned. "Is that in violation of the law?"

"I think it must be." Flash mirrored his smile with one just as bright. "But I'm not any kind of guardsman anymore."

Peter leaned in for another kiss and Flash provided eagerly. Again, a quiet murmur, mouth-to-mouth—"It's not flattery if it's the truth."

That shouldn't have been so charming, but Peter had never been one to conform to _shoulds_ and _should-nots_. With good looks like that, and a mouth so full of praise, it was easy to let him settle (not for the first time) between Flash's thighs, kissing any skin within reach.

"If we continue like this," Flash tilted his chin up for Peter. "You'll have to make me a wife."

Peter nosed at Flash's jawline. "Will I?"

Flash flicked his ear. "You will, _sirrah_."

"Ouch." Peter laughed, rubbing at his ear—he pushed Flash's hand down (gently) against the sheet to prevent any further flicks and just barely touched the tips of their noses together. "I can live with that future, if you can live with me."

Flash made a face, considering. "I don't know… I think it may _actually_ violate a few of the land's own laws."

Peter teased at a kiss. "What is a man…" He kissed down Flash's jaw, to his chin. "But a woman?"

At that, Flash laughed. It was a fair justification in the age of sex manifesting in fire and form, and not far from what Flash had written in at least one poem, nestled in the back of a ribbon-bound bundle of papers. "Alright." Flash flexed against Peter's hold, testing. "Find yourself a priest who will agree."

Peter let up slightly on Flash's hands, and moved his kisses back up just so he could eye Flash, with eyebrows raised.

"A rabbi."

Flash's eyebrows went up in imitation. "Oh?"

"Later." Peter bit at Flash's lip. "For now…"

"Oh, I see. The spirit comes _later_." Flash laughed for maybe the thousandth time that day. "For _now_ … the flesh."

Peter fastened their lips together with a quiet, "Yes."

✧✧✧

Though Flash's first day home was spent mostly in Peter's bed, partaking in as many of the more pleasant sins as possible (including sloth), the next found Peter awake before dawn in his study, with bits of wood and metal and chalk.

It was in this room Flash sat, dressed in stays and petticoats, watching Peter carefully lift the skirts to slip one somewhat roughly-made leg into place. Preliminary, testing the fit, but with a locking joint at the knee, and a calf which curved into a blade-like foot. Its partner joined it moments later and Peter held his hands out—

Flash stood, lightly grasping the wrist around which Peter wore the busk ribbon.

It was different from the fine legs of the ball. Not nearly so mystical. They seemed to be somewhere in-between the things Flash was used to… Either way, much higher quality than the peg legs from before, though Flash thought it might be nice to have something so simple, some days.

"Does it hurt?" Peter reached as if to dance.

Flash spun slowly, settling in Peter's arms. "No."

"Oh, good." Peter wrapped his arms around Flash, holding steady. Offered a few small kisses to the side of Flash's face. He seemed to think a long moment before adding, "You're taller than me."

Flash laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Furste and forwardlye, flattery may not be in violation of the King's law but it is in violation of GOD'S LAW but also peter is telling the truth when he praises flash so I mean, is it really flattery just cause he's also hoping for a trip to the bone zone
> 
> Generally when I write Flash I try to avoid him crying too much but that's in 616, usually. This feels like extenuating circumstances what with the traumatic near-death experience followed immediately by 6 years of isolation and abuse. I mean, it's also not unlike some of his characterization as a teen when he lived with his dad still. So I feel like it's not tooootally unreasonable.  
> but also
> 
> *writes OOC fic*  
>   
> anyway  
> [*clears throat*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8yA82CFvisw)  
> here's a bonus of some sketching i did for this au the other day:  
>   
> ([on tumblr](https://hoardlikegoldenirises.tumblr.com/post/614050252023021568))


End file.
